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Date Posted: 01:52:09 06/17/02 Mon
Author: Julian Emberson
Subject: And who might be you PupPeTeeR?
In reply to: Draco Malfoy 's message, "Re: .:: I'm just a boy, playing the suicide king. ::." on 00:45:42 06/17/02 Mon

Limbs crossed sharply over one another, displeased disposition remaining yet he never opted to disgrace his face with some permanent sneer. A condescending slope of his brow, upwards and an unpleasant line of his lips were all that kept upon his features. “You could use a drink to go with that darling innocent sarcasm of yours, Draco,” Said with a measured smirk. “If that was true, ‘fuck you’ would have had a whole different meaning to me a long time ago.” He almost felt regretful. Almost.

He watched, dramatically losing the expression on his face as it was substituted by a dreary sigh and the emotion that followed. He picked up his book and smiled, becoming detached of the situation. It always happened and it was always strange, because the anger and the feeling never stayed. They all switched in the most unrealistic of moments, drawing him into deep depressions that faded as soon as he was brought back to the reality that kept him grounded. He was always falling onto the floors, yet the heights always changed, and when he fell all the hurt came crashing on him in one single flash and then it was over. He was back.

He walked slowly around the table, stopping at the corner to look at the other. Yes, they were the same. What he said he remembered and he meant it, every word, every whisper. And this was strange in the way that he spoke as himself, and not as the character he played. I learned to say ‘fuck you’ just as easily, he remembered vaguely. In every way, I suppose, I wonder if you did. The remote sparkle within green eyes brought forth an excerpt, whether familiar, there was no care.

“I’d like to get away from earth awhile and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me and half grant what I wish and snatch me away, not to return.” Peculiarly enough, he said this with a detached smile, waving the book elevated on an arm resting on one stack. He chuckled quietly, looking down, no regrets about having recited the part of the poem. He inhaled slowly and set the book down, pushing slightly off the books and standing arms crossed again. “You should read Frost. Learn a bit more.”

He smiled, becoming even more unusual in the predicament they were both in. Aestheticism had always gotten the best of him, giving him the nearest escape from an emotional recovery outburst. Truthfully, he was as amiable as anybody got, although everyone was and is a possible victim. Nobody got away, really. It was a talent, his being able to make the "seemingly" strongest of people cry. Seeing it gave him no reason to act like a miserable bitch when he didn’t have to. “I’m not stopping any incoming insults, mind you. Just had to say so.”

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